


All of Us Looking at the Stars

by perhapsless



Category: In the Bleak Midwinter (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Romance, how about a lil steamy anya/watcher, idk it's just all the lil drabbles i do every day so i have em in one place, probably everyone will be included at some point, ya never know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:13:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 4,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29148762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perhapsless/pseuds/perhapsless
Summary: Just a collection of all the random little writing exercises I do. More for my sake than anything else, but enjoy the nonsense.
Relationships: Anya/Ivan, Anya/Omega, Delta & Anya, Delta/Anya, Ivan/Anya, Omega & Delta, Omega & Ivan, Omega/Anya
Comments: 7
Kudos: 24





	1. The Best Laid Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Omega's tried very very hard to avoid this, but Anya is stubborn and he can only be expected to do so much.

He’s....

Well.

He’s  _ trying _ to be furious with her, because this has all been for her benefit, and she has an entirely viable (if irritating) candidate available, and if she wasn’t so stubborn-

He’s trying very, very hard to be furious with her, because there’s only so much patience he can be expected to have. His self control, usually rigid, lays in tatters; his reasons, logical and well planned, are thrown to the wind. 

Every plan he’s made has been ruined, because she’s seen fit to cover his lips with hers, and his mind has gone completely blank. 

Hm.

Actually, he’s not sure why humans aren’t just doing this all the time. He can’t remember why he hasn’t been doing this every waking moment since he found her, or why he ever saw fit to deprive himself off it, except that Delta is right about his being utterly and completely moronic.

She sighs against his mouth, and something in him snaps, and he’s  _ hers _ without question.

\----------------

He sighs heavily, resting his forehead against hers, his hand still cradling the side of her throat. 

‘You really should not have done that.’ 

Anya laughs, a little incredulous, and he doesn’t have to look to know she’s rolling her eyes. 

"You’re still going to pretend you don’t have feelings for me? After  _ that _ ?"

"No," he responds dryly, "but I had been doing fairly well, before. That was underhanded."

He feels her shrug, and feels a thrill of warmth in his chest as she rests her cheek against his shoulder.

She smells like home. 

"Someone had to tell the truth."


	2. The Best Laid Plans, B-Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anya's POV of their first kiss; Omega continues to be an idiot.

And she realizes, as she pulls him down by his shirt, that he can stop her at any moment, that he’s capable of moving faster than she can even comprehend, but also that he isn’t going to. 

And she realizes, as her lips meet his, that her stubbornness and his conviction were always going to lead them here, to her grabbing him by the shirt collar and saying _no, you don’t get to be only one that decides_ and him finally, finally giving in. 

And she realizes, as his fingers tangle in her hair, cradling the back of her head with his palms, his lips firm and insistent on hers, the taste of him warm and comforting- 

-Ivan was right. 

One of his hands slides to her the small of her back, holding her flush against him, the other holding the back of her neck. He angles her head back and kisses her again and again. Longer. Slower. Deeper. 

He loves her, she knows it, and if she wasn’t so blissfully reveling in it, she’d be furious that he’s lied so often to her, furious that he’s made the choice for her- 

  
Furious that he hasn’t spent the past six months _ kissing her like this. _


	3. Hardtack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Omega never claimed to be a good cook. He claimed to be an efficient cook. It's different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where my crackheadery starts!

The android base was sprawling and pristine, its sleek surfaces like oil made solid. The kitchen- _Delta’s kitchen_ , as Omega wryly referred to it- was even more so, with its perfectly buffed stainless steel and wide island.

Omega was standing in the kitchen when she entered, leaning against the island, his arms folded in boredom. As soon as her foot crossed the threshold, he looked up to meet her gaze, the unnatural blue light behind his eyes dimming.

“You’re back.”

“Well spotted. _You’re_ cooking?”

The edge of his mouth lifted just slightly- anyone else might have missed it, but she never did- and he wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Delta refuses to allow anyone to call what I am doing ‘cooking’. I believe his most recent term was ‘chemically altering foodstuff in a negative fashion’.”

“God, that bad?” Anya glanced over at the pot boiling merrily on the stove—

-and stared.

“Omega. Please tell me that isn’t what I think it is.”

“I probably can’t.”

“Are you _boiling chicken_?” She stared up at him- at least he had the decency to look slightly sheepish- and then closed her eyes, burying her face in his shirt. “Omega, I don’t think that’s officially _food_.”

“It is _not_ ,” came Delta’s voice from behind them, stern and somewhat irritated. Omega sighed, his thumb lazily tracing circles on Anya’s back.

“Do elaborate, Delta. I know you’re about to explode.”


	4. Man's Mortal Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivan and Anya's cat are not friends. Except when they are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I cheat on Anyega with a lil' Ivanya. He's my side hoe.

It’s half past two in the morning when she wakes with a start, her breaths coming fast and harsh as her brain tries to remember that she isn’t drowning. Her head jerks to her right to check on Misha, fast asleep in his bed, cheeks slightly flushed and lips parted. She sighs with relief- she’d woken him with her last night terror and his fearful, teary eyes were far worse than the dream itself- and relaxes, leaning back….

…

... Into nobody’s embrace, actually. The bed is empty, his side cold and bare, as if he left hours ago. She frowns, running a hand over his pillow. He must have simply waited for her to fall asleep and left, she thinks, must have slowly disentangled himself and crept away.

He has dreams, too. He tells her about them, once, in the world’s most depressing pillow talk, his cheek pressed against her bare breast as she strokes his hair. Dreams about his family, long gone, about hollow fathers and curses bathed in blood.

She hates to think of him alone.

She searches around, finds a pair of sweat pants to pull on under his oversized shirt, takes another glance at Misha’s sleeping form and creeps out. Ivan’s a creature of habit, and if he’s not tuning his guitar, he’s-

Yes, there’s a stream of light pouring from the broom closet next door, the one he’s commandeered as a sort of workstation. There’s some kind of commotion, not the usual quiet tinkering she’s used to, and curiously, she nudges the door slightly ajar.

Ivan is sitting on a stool, barefoot, shirtless, his ginger hair in total disarray, pointing a laser pointer at the wall.

And then a pile of ratty orange fur flings itself after it, mewing excitedly, and she realizes that Ivan has finally found a way to get her cat to acquiesce to his continued survival.

She leans against the doorway, trying not to laugh as Vanya darts in circles after the laser pointer, looking all the more like a particularly fuzzy dish rag on a mission. And she glances up, and he’s _beaming_ , all boyish dimples and crooked smile, eyes crinkled at the corner, and she melts a little.

Beautiful man, all hers.


	5. Black, Two Sugars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anya has many talents, and making coffee is not one of them. Omega might be a little heartbroken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just like to think about Omega loosening up around Anya and joking around with her. Maybe some dimples are involved. Maybe a lil' Omega smile. I just think he's neat.

Sometimes he forgets what it was like before her. 

Having her is like a wound fully healed, without a hint of scar. He knows that there was always a pit in his chest, a gaping emptiness that his siblings never understood, a longing for something he’d never had, a barren hopelessness that grew colder each year. He knows that he’d always felt wrong, operating just below the surface. 

But he doesn’t remember how it truly felt, not really, because since the moment he surrendered to her, he’s been whole. Not healed, not fixed, but as if there was never anything missing in the first place. 

She’s perfect for him. Knows him to his core, knows him in ways he’s never known himself. At first, he’d feared he’d never understand her, but now it’s truly like two halves of the same coin. 

She’s perfect, and brilliant, and kind, and he _loves_ her, but she simply can not make a cup of coffee. 

She’s got a sense of humor about it, though. 

“You look depressed.” 

He peers down into what he imagines was once coffee, but now appears to be tar-adjacent. “I’ve good cause to be. Have you actually tasted coffee before?”

She shrugs, a grin toying at the edge of her lips. “Didn’t like it. All bean water is the same.” 

“I may actually have to kick you out for that.”


	6. Back in the U.S.S.R.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No, Omega doesn't HATE the Beatles, it's just kind of impossible for anyone to want a Beatles song to be the soundtrack to their torture chamber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only thing I want in this life is for Ivan and Omega to be best buds. I hear it's good to be friends with your wife's lover! Except definitely keep sniping at each other, that just sounds fun.

“The Beatles. In a prison cell. You’re not very imaginative, are you?”

Ivan pauses his hummed rendition of ‘Let it Be’ and blinks at him. “You know the Beatles?”

The android rolls his eyes upward and sighs heavily, as if Ivan has just asked him to explain where babies came from. “No, Bane, I’ve never heard of the Beatles. One of the most popular and overplayed bands in history has somehow escaped my notice.”

So androids paid enough attention to music to recognize melodies from nearly a century prior. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised; they can play human well enough to blend in, after all, when they need to.

No, what surprises him is that Omega has an opinion on his music taste.

“So you hate the Beatles. You’re one of those.” It’s barbed, specifically to get a reaction, but if it works, the android doesn’t reward him.

“I don’t _hate_ the Beatles. By my count, I have about 10 minutes before she comes back in and starts her next round of torture, and I’d prefer those minutes to be free from one of the most overexposed songs in their repertoire.” He grunts, adjusting against the vicelike restraints that hold him to the wall. “If you _must_ perform from that decade, at least go with the Bee Gees.”

“ _The Bee Gees_?” asks Ivan incredulously.

“I Started a Joke is more fitting than Let it Be. I don’t expect mother Mary to deliver anything unto us, do you?”

...Well, fuck. He’s got a point. “You realize I’m going to hum every goddamn Beatles song I know in sequence now, right?”

Omega just looks at him, his pupils still crimson red, then rolls his eyes. “I really don’t know what she sees in you.”


	7. Morning People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anya is a morning person. Omega decidedly is not.

He looks so peaceful in sleep.

She wakes, curled up in his side, her nose just inches from his slightly parted lips. He’s shifted in his sleep to his stomach, one arm wrapped around the pillow, the other slung over her shoulders. His hair is in disarray, falling into his eyes, his lashes almost grazing his skin. Without conscious thought, she lifts her hand to graze his lips, then his cheek.

He stretches slightly and pulls her closer, his lips grazing the top of her head.

“Good morning.”

He grunts quietly, returning to utter stillness, and she giggles. He’s always so hard to get up in the mornings, if his presence isn’t absolutely required for something.

The hardened general, the military genius. She’s seen him clear room after room on his own, she’s seen him devise plans that Alexei could never hope to see through, she’s seen him go for days on end without rest.

And yet, when it comes to those rare days off, he is the laziest man she’s ever met.

“It’s almost 9! Look, the sun’s up.”

“Wonderful news for the planet,” he mutters. “And here I was thinking earth’s time might be up today.”

She tries to lift herself out of his arms with very little success. Even when he’s half asleep, he’s far too strong for her.

But the sun is _up_ , and it’s a _beautiful_ morning, and she wants her tea and maybe a run.

“Omega, at least let me up, sleepy. I’d like to use the day.”

He opens his eyes just long enough to roll them at her. “It’s 9 AM. What could you possibly need to do?”

“Exactly,” she says slowly, “It’s 9 AM. That’s a _normal_ morning time. For _normal_ people.”

He tightens his hold, drawing her to his chest, and pulls the blanket over both of their heads. “The sun will still be there, later. And tomorrow, too. Maybe even the next day.”

She sighs, then laughs as his eyelashes tickle her cheek. “You’re a general. Aren’t you supposed to be a military man?”

“Anya,” he says patiently, squeezing her side and pressing a sluggish kiss to her cheek, “Please shut up. I’m sleeping.”

She can’t help but laugh again at his somewhat childish tone, and gives up, snuggling closer and running her fingers through his hair. He hums contentedly, and- she has no idea how- almost immediately falls back asleep.

He’s so beautiful in the mornings, she thinks, and maybe she doesn’t mind staying here a little longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have this crackhead headcanon that omega has the sleep schedule of a 16 year old if left to his own devices. thankfully he's usually required to be more active, but if it's his day off, he will absolutely stay up until 3 AM doing unspeakable things to anya and then stay in bed until noon.


	8. And Then There Were Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anya stress bakes. Delta stress eats. It's an efficient system.

She tries to keep busy these days.

She’s rolling out swirls of dough, kneading in allspice and nutmeg, arguing with it until it becomes smooth and pliable. The tiny vial of star anise is almost the shade of Ivan’s hair, and she’s layering ribbons of brown sugar and cinnamon upon the dough sheets, and the pin she’s using is the same deep, metallic grey as Omega’s eyes, and she’s rolling the strips around each other like the petals of a rose. 

She hasn’t made cinnamon buns for years, not since the last Christmas her sister was alive, but she’s making them on autopilot. All she can see are the two of them charging forward as she ran away, and all she can hear is the last transmission from the wraith they received.

_ You’re not going to see your brother again, Delta. It’s too bad. And then there were two, hm? _

If she hadn’t known already, she knows for sure then, seeing Delta’s knuckles clench and his eyes widen in what can only be seen as fear, that Delta is capable of love. He looks at her and she knows his terror is reflected in her own eyes, knows that, if nothing else, the two of them are the same in this aspect. 

The zeroes on her wrist are the only thing that keeps him going sometimes. She knows sometimes he brushes past her just to check, just to soothe the anxiety boiling below the surface that his brother really is gone. 

She tries to keep busy these days.

Delta hasn’t slept in at least two days, and she barely has, either. His time is divided between tirelessly searching the city and monitoring the contents of her blood, trying fruitlessly for an answer. His priorities have shifted, at least for now, from determining her use to the cause; now he needs her to find his brother. 

She spreads smoked honey and toasted pecans on a baking dish, tilts the buns upside down in the mixture and sets them to bake. She cleans up her mess, trying to go slowly, burn the minutes away, but too soon she’s left twisting her hands nervously as she watches the dough rise. 

She looks down at the zeroes on her wrist and breathes a sigh of relief as her fingers pass over the digits. Delta tells her once, the night of the message, tells her in a fit of rare honesty that he loves his brother more than anything. Tells her she will, too. 

_ You remind me of him, sometimes. From before the War.  _

_ You’ll love him more than you realize.  _

She hears a footstep in the kitchen, glances up to see Delta’s form enter. His eyes are alight with curiosity, but it does little to hide the exhaustion evident in his face. She doesn’t have to ask. Still nothing.

“Are those cinnamon buns?”

“Yes,” she says, her lips twisting slightly when she recognizes the expression on his face. “You have a sweet tooth, don’t you?”

“Our mother used to make them on Sundays,” he says, drawing nearer to her. “I would help her.”

There’s a moment as they stand there together, strangely companionable. Delta is typically manipulative, there’s a constant push and pull with them, but they understand each other, now. There’s an uneasy respect forming.

“Does Omega cook?” Anya asks, not daring to look away from the rising dough. She’s startled when Delta laughs-  _ laughs,  _ not the wry, humorless chuckle she’s used to. 

“Omega has failed at making ice before.” Delta continues to grin, leaning against the counter, his arms elegantly balanced along the metal top. “He simply doesn’t have the patience for it, I’m afraid. I usually relegate him to taste tester, and even that’s questionable. He once told me that he couldn’t tell the difference between nutmeg and ginger.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baby's first sprint exercise! 653 words in 23 minutes.
> 
> Sorry no mention of Ivan, I just didn't have time to include him. Maybe I'll revisit this. He's probably fiiiiiiiine.


	9. Sweet Tooth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Misha asks the question the whole base is wondering.

“Are you Ivan’s girlfriend?” 

Anya chokes a little on her marshmallow. She’s sitting with Misha and Ivan on the floor in his room, having jerry-rigged a camp stove to teach Misha how to make s’mores. It's a special treat for him, his condition doesn't permit for much sugar, but she's convinced Ivan that it's actually better for him to indulge in small quantities. She has insulin at the ready, but for now, he's just like any other kid. He’s been so excited, carefully twirling the metal wire they’d used as sticks, tongue slightly sticking out between his lips as he concentrates on a perfect brown marshmallow. 

Truthfully, it shouldn’t have been a surprising question. Ivan’s reclining against the wall, both knees folded up, his arm lazily balanced along one of them, his other wrapped firmly around her waist. She’s leaned against his chest, tucked between his legs, wearing his sweatshirt. He’s definitely kissed her head at least twice, and she’s been toasting the marshmallows for him, popping them in his mouth without thinking much about it.

Yeah, they’re not exactly subtle. 

Still, girlfriend seems like a strange term in the apocalypse. 

Ivan snickers, unbothered, and rests his chin on top of her head. “We’re together, yeah.” 

Misha nods sagely, holding up his golden brown marshmallow. “Cool. Is this done right?” 

“Perfect, buddy, good job. Chuck that over here.” 

“Nope,” Misha says firmly, clumsily sliding his marshmallow onto a sweet cracker. “You have your girlfriend for that.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you've met a kid with type 1 diabetes, you know they're born with a special sense for sneaking sugar when they're not supposed to. anya just figures if he's going to try to swipe some sweets, she should be around just in case. ivan's just happy that she's in his lap.
> 
> i'm a firm anyega, so my little ivanya drabbles are kind of AU for me, for the most part. it's still a cute couple!


	10. Best Laid Plans 2: The Return to Laying Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Omega's stubborn, but Anya is worse.
> 
> (Or: Revisit of Omega's POV of his first time kissing Anya. It just wasn't dramatic enough the first time. )

The moment her lips are on his, he stops thinking. 

  


He could have stopped her. He’s faster than her, can analyze every moment in milliseconds, but his last thought is  _ her eyes are so green _ , of all things, and then her full, soft lips are on his and everything, for just a moment, goes blank. 

  


This is what he’s been waiting for. 

  


His brain is usually going a mile a minute, analyzing, over thinking, filing away every observable detail, and it’s  _ exhausting _ . It’s been this way since he was a child, when he’d fill the void with every book and documentary he can find his way into, when he learns to make the endless  _ thinking _ a little more entertaining, when he wonders if it’s overcompensation for the way his chest feels empty and listless. 

  


Apparently it is, because all he can think now is the scent of her- lavender, cocoa butter, something soft and comforting- and the feel of her in his arms. His hands are tangled in her hair, and she’s just so much warmer than he’d expected, like the glow of a fireplace in the winter. And then she sighs against his mouth, her body melting into his, her hands no longer clenched into his shirt but resting on his shoulders, and whatever control he has left- and there’s precious little- crumbles entirely.

  


He gets a taste of her, and he’s gone. 

His hand travels to the small of her back, pulling her flush against him. There isn’t a word in any language to describe what her mouth tastes like, sweeter than caramel, richer than wine, except that he gets one hit and he’s utterly addicted. 

  


His other hand is cradling the back of her neck, pulling her hair back so he can kiss her deeper and deeper, slowing down, relishing in her. She sighs again and one of her hands tangles in his own hair, sends shivers down his spine, and he groans, pulling her closer. 

  


He has no idea why humans aren’t doing this every moment of the day. He also has no idea why  _ he _ hasn’t been doing this every moment of the day, except that he’s an idiot. 

  


He must be doing  _ something _ right, because she’s keening a little, softly, and he feels it in his chest. In his abdomen. 

  


A little lower. 

  


He’s just a man, completely and wholly in love with a woman, and he wants her more than he’s wanted anything in his life. 

  


And he should be furious with her, furious that she’s thrown all of his precautions and restraint to the wind, furious that she’s so stubborn, furious that this was all for  _ her _ benefit and yet has come to nothing. 

Should be, but instead he’s.... 

  


He hasn’t felt this way in years, and it’s tinged with guilt, with shame, but... 

  


Happy. He’s exquisitely, ravenously  _ happy _ , thankful, even, that she’s given him an excuse to stop resisting her. 

They break apart, her desperately catching her breath, and he rests his forehead against hers, his hand drifting from her neck to her hair, tangling and untangling a blonde strand in his fingers. 

  


“You really shouldn’t have done that,” he says calmly, almost conversationally, as if the entirety of his world hasn’t shifted for the umpteenth time since he’s met her. He knows, in the way he always  _ knows _ with her, that she’s rolling her eyes, and he can’t help but let a small smile bleed through as she scoffs. 

  


“You’re really going to pretend you don’t have feelings for me?” Her tone is challenging, and he can  _ feel _ the fight building her. Stubborn thing. 

  


“Not at all,” he says, and presses a kiss to her forehead. No, he can’t anymore. “Still, I was doing fairly well, before,” he continues, and even he can see the futility of the lie. Ivan, Delta, even Alexei had seen through it, had used his heart for their own purposes. “That was underhanded.” 

  


And it certainly was.  _ If she ever uses her powers for evil, I’m in trouble _ , he thinks, tracing a finger across her lower lip, thinks,  _ I’d do anything _ . Finally a smile graces her features, all dimples and freckles and brilliant green eyes, crinkling at the corners, and finally,  _ finally _ , it’s  _ his _ smile. She leans forward and rests her cheek against his chest, and he holds her close, and she smells like  _ home _ .

  


“Someone had to do  _ something _ , and you weren’t using your words.”

  


He can’t help it. He laughs, freely, and the sound is strange to his own ears. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s felt this way, not even sure that he ever has. She grins up at him, leans up and kisses his cheek. “I’ve been waiting for that for months,” she says, and he kisses her again. 

  


So has he. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first drabble was the first I'd written in literally six years- I wrote it before I even wrote the first chapter of mini-fic, We Who Wanted Kindness. Just wanted to see the change in 2 weeks since I've been writing more! 
> 
> Also, We Who Wanted Kindness- chapter 2 (Ivan) is depressing me, so have some fluff.


	11. Bullets and Barbiturates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Omega tries out a metaphor. Anya tears it apart.

“I  _ can’t.”  _

The room is silent.

The room is not silent, because rain is unrelenting against the roof, and the fluorescent lights in the hallways and floors are humming, and Omega’s footsteps are echoing as he comes near her, and she’s overwhelmed, suddenly, by the amount of  _ noise.  _

And by the deafening  _ tap  _ of a handgun being placed on the table in front of her. 

“You have to.” 

Omega’s voice is stern, leaves no room for argument, but there’s a softness around the edges she’s come to recognize- perhaps fruitlessly- is only ever used when he’s speaking to her. He’s standing across the table from her in the shooting gallery, his stance casual as he describes the fastest way to end a human life. Behind him, a black plastic sheet in the shape of a man is held by cords, a mere ten feet away. She cringes away from it, from the memory of the blue light piercing a human being’s jugular. 

She can still hear his screams, see the crimson splatter against the snow in a fashion that would be beautiful if it hadn’t come at a price. Her breathing is coming quicker now, a tightness in her chest threatening to spill over.

“Anya.” 

His voice brings her crashing back into her body, and a heavy hand on her shoulder keeps her there. He’s looking at her, a touch of concern around his features, his brow furrowed, and she wonders, yet again, why he keeps her at such a distance.

He’d be so  _ good _ at keeping her close.

“I took an oath, Omega,” she whispers, “I vowed never to do harm. I  _ can’t _ .”

He sighs, glancing upwards, and there’s a part of her, deep down, that can’t help but find it fascinating. He’s so  _ human _ , sometimes.

“We are in a war,” he says, a hint of exasperation creeping in. “An enemy killed today is an enemy that isn’t around to kill  _ you,”  _ and he holds up a hand as she begins to interrupt, “Or  _ anyone you care about _ , tomorrow.” 

Anya pauses a moment. He’s chosen the right way to counteract her argument, admittedly, knows that she’ll do anything for those that have found a way around her shyness, her timid demeanor. 

How can she live with herself if her guilt is what causes someone to die? It’s the old Hitler question, she thinks wryly, the Butterfly Effect. 

She grants mercy and kills a billion with it. Or she commits murder and saves no one. 

She hates it. He must see her wrestling with herself, because he drops his hand from her shoulder and nudges the gun towards her, stepping aside.

“Is there… “ she pauses, slowly picking up the cold, unfamiliar metal. His hands cover hers- she does an admirable job of holding back her reaction as the warm, soothing feeling of  _ rightness _ flows over her skin- and sets her fingers into place. 

“I don’t have to shoot to  _ kill _ , do I?” She asks desperately, wheeling around to look at him as he stands behind her. “ I can just-”    
  
“Shoot to maim? To cripple?” His tone isn’t judgmental, it’s patient, if anything, but the pique is hovering just under the surface. “This is a war, Anya, and I suppose you can always choose to shoot them in the kneecaps. They’ll be deemed a burden on their families for the rest of whatever short life they may lead without a stockpile of antibiotics, but yes, I suppose you can.” 

The fight leaves her. She knows, better than he does, the state of the human stockpile of medication, knows that it’s a losing battle to keep the injured alive, let alone healed. 

There’s a painful vice in her throat, and she blinks repeatedly as the target blurs. 

He doesn’t say anything, for a moment, and then he’s leaning against the table with his back to the target, facing her. His arms are folded, and once again she’s struck by the normalcy of his stance. 

It’s just so easy to forget what he is. 

“When I was young,” he starts, peering into the distance, “I found a bird.” 

“Young?” She can’t help but interrupt, gun forgotten, the tears drying against her skin. His lips twitch, and she thinks he  _ almost  _ smiles. His eyes soften, at any rate, and he rolls his eyes at her. 

“Yes, Anya, young. I did not burst into existence, and my mother didn’t stitch me together like an amusement park animatronic. I grew up.” 

She processes this, a million questions to the forefront, but she bites them back. 

“I found a bird, by the window. It was still alive, but barely. It must have hit the window, something was  _ wrong,  _ and Delta told me to kill it. I think I was ten.” 

She must have looked horrified, because he reaches out and- and she’s shocked, not he does it, but that he’s willing to _ - _ and tugs on a strand of her hair, playfully. 

“Don’t look so taken aback. He was right. Because I spent three days trying to take care of that crumpled little sparrow, and it died painfully.” 

“This isn’t the same, though,” she says, shoving down her reaction to his hand in her hair. “If you had shot the sparrow in the wing, maybe, but-”

“My point, as you well know, is that it’s kinder to end something quickly than prolong its suffering. You recognize that you have no choice but to defend yourself. You ask why you can not simply shoot to injure. This is why. The bird is already dying, in this situation. You can either prolong its suffering, or let it go.” He straightens up, then turns to face the target, slowly raising her gun. 

“This isn’t self-defense, Omega,” she says quietly. He’s busy correcting her stance, his eyes glowing blue as he concentrates. “I can’t die.” 

His gaze flits to hers, then back to her hands again. “We don’t know that. I’d rather not test it.” He finishes his sentence quickly, as if he doesn’t want her to dwell on it. “Would the comparison work better in your stubborn head if the bird was a rabid bat, instead? You’re putting down a threat, as painlessly as possible.” 

“You can’t  _ humanely euthanize  _ a human being,” she mutters. SHe’s surprised when he takes a step closer.

“Can you humanely euthanize one of my kind, then?” His voice isn’t necessarily antagonistic, like Delta’s would be. More inquisitive, slightly challenging. 

She thinks for a moment, thinks of the maintenance android that greets her every morning, thinks of the Watcher with the dry sense of humor that patrols her block. Think of his brother. Thinks of him.

“No, you can’t do that, either.” 

He stares into her eyes, and something-  _ something _ flashes in his. 

He takes a step back.

“You’re in position. Take the shot.” 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another sprint challenge: 1071 words in 43 minutes
> 
> *tik tok voice* i'm a veeeeet teeeech, and barbiturates are what we use for euthanasia. 'bullets and beuthanasia' just doesn't have the same ring, though. 
> 
> i like thinking of baby omega as being an animal lover. gets me all fuzzy. i keep thinking about how alexei (i think?) said 'they didn't want the world dead, just us.' maybe androids like plants and cats, i dunno. 
> 
> also MAYBE delta and omega are close now because they're all they have left and weren't particularly one way or another as kids, or MAYBE delta has always been omega's bestest big brother. MAYBE you can mind yr damn business, you'll drag big bro delta from my cold, dead hands


End file.
